A Chaotic Reality
by semnai
Summary: Sherlock decides to call the number that Jim from IT left him after watching John leave him for a date with Sarah. He could have never forseen the consequences. AU after that scene in TGG. Pre-slash to John/Sherlock Rated T for safety later.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note_**

_Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic ever, after years of reading them. Yaaaay breaking fic virginity. All rights to ACD, Moffat, BBC. AKA not me unfortunately._

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was running for his life. His feet beat down on the pavement as he bolted from the café, frantically looking which direction to run before choosing left. Only one thought pounded through his usually busy mind. John. John. John. It was like a rhythm in his mind, pushing him forward, keeping him going long after his leg muscles were burning and his lungs screamed for air, because it wasn't his life he was running for. It was John's.<p>

**Two Days Earlier**

Retro Nike shoes were laid out on the lab table. A computer quietly beeped beside them, flashing the names of different substances and the words 'No Match' after each. John paced back and forth in the lab, nervously wringing his hands. Sherlock Holmes was seated in the middle of everything, coolly regarding John.

"Hospitals are full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you cry by their bedsides and see what good it does them?" Sherlock said sardonically, just as the computer's beeping sounded loudly. "Ah-ha!" Sherlock said triumphantly. The words "Search Complete" now flashed on the computer screen. At last, he thought, he might have that vital clue to discover the owner of these wonderfully mysterious shoes. They had been unyielding in any really useful clues so far, but the data was coming more easily now, and he knew soon he would have his answer.

Molly walked into the room. "Any luck?" she asked as she strode over to Sherlock. He glanced over at her. Her voice was slightly higher pitched today. She was happy about something. Good news? New clothes? Whatever someone like her would care about. Hair styled, dash of lipstick applied. She weighed 2 pounds more? No, three. It was definitely three. Happy, looking a bit self-confident, but physically she was doing worse. Spending more time getting out, going to more restaurants, with someone else paying to get the more expensive food. New boyfriend?

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said, turning back to his microscope. He heard the door swing open for a second time. Curious, Sherlock glanced up again. A man, who he had never seen before in St. Barts, stood at the doorway. Young, around his age. Physically, deceptively weak, but obvious to someone like him to be in good health. Sherlock looked back down through his microscope. Hair: short, dark brown, and styled with a bit of product. Eyelashes had been dyed three days ago? Possibly four? Clear skin, signs of taurine cream in the frown lines. Bags under the eyes, which are a bit bloodshot. Not bloodshot enough to suggest drug use. Just from staying up late consistently then. Clubber probably. Overall, clean. Too clean and neat. Clothes more expensive than they look, designer labels. Underwear visible above the waistline, a bright yellow band indicating a brand he saw in case once involving a particularly violent domestic dispute between two men. The man was introducing himself to Sherlock now.

"Gay," said Sherlock, as he stated the obvious fact that everyone around him must know by now. Even this man's voice made it clear that he was the farthest from straight a man could be.

"Sorry, what?" Molly said, apparently surprised by the tone of her voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Nothing. Um, hey," Sherlock said dismissively, as he gave a faint smile to this man before returning to his work. Sherlock watched through the corner of his eye while Jim not-so-accidently knocked the metal pan off the table where it clashed to the ground. Picking it up, and muttering an apology, Sherlock observed him slipping a piece of paper under it. How subtle. It must contain his number. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Like he would ever even consider a man like him. Maybe when a few years ago, but now…

Interesting. What's changed? He likes to think that his personality has remained the same. What else then?

Molly, being the naive little girl that she is, was getting emotional about him calling her 'boyfriend' gay. Sherlock quickly explained to her and John, who was surprisingly incredulous about it as well, the quite obvious facts as to why Jim was not as innocent as he was made out to be. Molly left hurriedly and upset as John started to lecture him. This was getting increasingly more common. As Sherlock quickly changed the subject to the much more interesting topic of the shoes, he quickly and quietly slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

On the cab ride home after explaining the story of Carl Powers to John, Sherlock's mind couldn't help but dwell on why he had kept the number. An inconsistency like this must be accounted for. Usually all his actions were logical and well-thought out. He already knew that he couldn't care less about this man and the last thing he wanted was to meet him again. Why keep the number though? And why wasn't he even considering the offer?

An opportunity like this where no foreplay would be expected, no socializing, nothing would be expected of him, probably just some quick sex and he would be done, is not easy to come by for someone like Sherlock. All he's ever needed before was to satisfy his boring physical need and then carry on. He would dream of a situation like this when he was in Uni. He avoided clubs and pubs there. Too much noise, too much human stupidity. He found that he was barely able to stand 10 minutes in one.

He glanced over at John. Brilliant, emotional, broken, loyal, tea-drinking, jumper-wearing, _stupid_ John.

Sensing Sherlock's eyes on him, John turned away from the window and look up at Sherlock. "Um, so I got a text from Sarah, and she was thinking about us meeting up tonight. Well us, as in her and me, but if the case was too important…" John drifted off, looking awkward.

"No, no, it's fine. I think I have it from here." Sherlock said promptly.

"Really? Because if you need my help…?" John looked worried but Sherlock couldn't understand why.

"I said I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, not too kindly, and looked away. First the number, and now this? What was going on with him? Sherlock sat in silence pondering the complexities of his current emotional state. He felt angry and something else, and he had no idea why. What was different? Was he different? Why was he different?

Sherlock continued to contemplate this even after they arrived at the flat, hoping that once he discovered the root of the problem it would instantly go away. It was a vain hope. He threw himself on the couch and thought through all the possibilities for his current actions and, god help him, _feelings._ Once he started thinking about this however, the proverbial floodgates opened.

Sherlock could hear John speaking to him several times as he lay on the couch, but Sherlock wasn't in the mood to listen. He NEEDED to figure this out. Soon. He didn't think he could go on like with this uncertainty in his thoughts for much longer. He needed action. He was in the middle of a case of Christ-sakes. That should be 100% of his attention for every second of everyday until he solves it. The door slammed below him, causing him to jump out of his reverie. Sherlock looked at the time on his phone. It was late afternoon.

Sherlock jumped up and looked out the window, like he had last night. John was walking away from the flat quickly. Leaving for his _date_ then. Of course. Sherlock stepped over the table falling on the couch again with dramatic flair. John. Leaving in the middle of an important case. Abandoning him. Didn't he care about all these people dying? Obviously not then, if he was leaving to go 'get off' with Sarah.

Sherlock, frustrated, grabbed a pillow and held it over his head, and yelled into it. Why now of all times to feel like this? Why now in the middle of perhaps the most interesting case so far in his career did he have to have some sort of identity crisis? He's Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't have identity crisises.

Sherlock attempted to push all the swirling emotions in the back of his brain like he had been able to every other moment of his life. His attempts at restoring his cold, heartless shell now though were highly unsuccessful. Doubts, hurt, uncertainty, anger, confusion, and something else continued to seep through. This was a complete disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Why did people even have feelings? They're more useless and destructive than Anderson.

Sherlock's phone beeped from his coat pocket. He was torn from looking at the text or not. If it was Lestrade, there might be something new for the case that would distract him. If it was Mycroft, it would most likely make him even angrier. Five minutes later, the phone beeped again. Sherlock felt around the top of the coffee table, picked up one of John's medical journals and threw it. A short while later, it beeped again. And then again. Finally, it started ringing, as someone was now calling him. Sherlock took the pillow and covered his ears. "Leave me alone Mycroft. No one likes you." He folded himself even more deeply into the cushions of the couch with a huff.

Muffled through the pillow and cushions, Sherlock could hear a knock downstairs. Sherlock groaned, but remained where he was. He wished it was John, but he knew that that couldn't be more wrong. There was the scraping sound of a key being turned in the lock, the door opening and closing, and slow footsteps up the stairs.

"What could you possibly want now? Leave me. I already told you I'm not working that dull case of yours," Sherlock mumbled loudly into his pillow.

"I just wanted to talk," Mycroft said quietly.

"That's bloody brilliant Mycroft. Go away."

"About John."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author Note:**_

_Disclaimer: Don't own the characters unfortunately. That lucky pleasure goes to BBC, Moffat and Gatiss._

_And a thank you to everyone for the reviews, favorites and story alerts. You have no idea how much this means to a fledgling writer like me! Eternal hugs to you all! I shall back you internet chocolate chip cookies._

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><p>Sherlock groaned and threw the pillow at Mycroft. "Piss off."<p>

Mycroft neatly dodged the pillow, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

"How… mature." Mycroft surveyed Sherlock's emotional state and feigned a smile. "Like I said, I was hoping to talk to you about John."

Sherlock grumpily rolled over on the couch, turning his back to Mycroft, but said nothing.

Mycroft took this as a sign to continue. "I know we don't… talk often," he said hesitantly.

Sherlock huffed. "I think there's a good reason for that. Why don't you leave now why you're still ahead?"

Mycroft continued, ignoring his little brother. "You're confused. You've finally come across something that doesn't present a solution in a logical, clear fashion. God knows I'm not the expert about this either, but I can't just sit here while you drive him away."

"What are you going on about? Are you ill? All those ridiculous diplomats getting to your head?" asked Sherlock spitefully.

Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock heard the tell-tale squeak of the arm chair as Mycroft sat down. This peaked Sherlock's interest. Mycroft was showing weakness, to him of all people. Sherlock didn't turn around but lay on the couch, still and attentive to what Mycroft had to say next. He would never put himself through this whole uncomfortable situation unless it was something truly important.

As to why Mycroft was even doing this was a whole other question that he would have to look into later. There was the rustle of paper. Mycroft must have picked up the newspaper sitting on the coffee table, and was reading through it.

They both sat for several minutes in silence. As time dragged on, Sherlock's mind went back to the problem at hand. The number. John. Somehow, he thought, this must all be related. He was playing with the cushion in front of him as he thought. He never does something without a reason. Somewhere, at some point, his mind must have thought of some brilliant plan involving all of this and there was some mental block stopping him from figuring it out.

Sherlock jumped slightly when Mycroft began to speak again. "Would it have been terribly difficult for you to offer some tea? But that would have been expecting too much. I should really know better. Hmm… I'm going about this the wrong way aren't I?"

Sherlock snorted.

"You've been doing well recently. Really well. Better than I ever had cause to hope six months ago. And I'm really glad, Sherlock. I may not act it, or look it, but I am. I came here today though because I'm afraid you're on the verge of losing everything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Losing everything? Really? That's what you're trying this time? How melodramatic. I think I can handle myself, thank you."

"Sherlock…"said Mycroft warningly. Sherlock fell silent, still giving the air that he was pouting even though his back was turned. Mycroft sighed again, and Sherlock could picture him shaking his head in disapproval, like always.

"I don't know a better way to do this, so I'm just going to put it bluntly. Sherlock, you like John."

Sherlock sputtered and jumped up to face Mycroft. "Well, of course I like him. Obviously—"

"Sherlock. No," said Mycroft cutting him off. "You misunderstand me." He paused again like this conversation was personally causing him pain. "You're more than friends. Do you think friends depend on each other more than they need sustenance? Do you think they go from being complete strangers to killing to save the other's life in the matter of a day? Do you think friends stare at each other like you two have been caught doing? No, Sherlock. I don't think you've experienced anything like this before, which is why you're so confused. "

Sherlock just stared at him, with his mouth open. This clearly was not a topic he was expecting Mycroft to be talking to him about at all.

"Oh, how do I explain this without sounding more like those horrid teenage movies they have out these days? Sherlock, you love him. He reciprocates these feelings, as I can tell from the best of my knowledge, but he hasn't realized it either. You two are equally idiotic in this respect."

Mycroft looked Sherlock in the eyes, trying to gauge what he was thinking.

"Oh just don't stand there with your jaw hanging. It looks so… undignified. Sherlock?"

Sherlock just shook his head and sat back down, putting his head in his hands and slowly ruffling his dark brown hair. He was clearly trying to process this new information.

It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes. "Well, I'll let you sort out that for now. The Portugal ambassador is supposed to call in an hour. He's always so unpunctual, though, unfortunately. If you need me, texting will be preferable."

Sherlock continued to stare at the floor, with his head down, as Mycroft got up and started walking out of the apartment.

Just before Mycroft reached the stairs, Sherlock, without looking up, spoke one word. "Why?"

Mycroft gave a knowing smile and replied, "Believe it or not, little brother, but I care. I don't want you to lose him before it's too late." And with that he was down the stairs and out the door.

The second the door closed below, he jumped up.

Sherlock started to frantically pace the apartment muttering to himself. He needed to make sense of all the facts he had previously and all the new data coming in. Could what Mycroft said be true? He, Sherlock Holmes, _liked _John Watson? His mind went back to earlier that day.

Every conversation he had with the man could be remembered with surprising clarity. Usually, he would just delete all the mundane chit-chat he had with mates, if you could call them that, in the past. Not necessary to his work, information like that would just clutter up his brain. But now, when he was actually standing here thinking about it, Sherlock could remember every single conversation with John. How John looked, what he was wearing, what he had eaten that day, his diatribes, his voice, his smile.

In the midst of all of this emotional turmoil that Sherlock was going through at the moment, he could feel a small smile creeping on his face, and a new funny sort of feeling in his chest. No, it wasn't new; he had just never acknowledged it before. If he didn't know any better, he would call it fondness, but he wasn't sure about anything anymore.

Sherlock shook his head. Earlier today. Right. Focus Sherlock.

His brain started working on overdrive to solve this problem, like he did with his most difficult cases. He was tired. Tired of not understanding something for once. Tired of the emotional upheaval. Tired of John walking out on him, giving some of his precious attention to someone else that was not Sherlock. A someone who didn't deserve the attention. Sherlock clutched his head as he muttered in disgust. Jealousy, his brain whispered.

Was that the problem? The meanest, most primitive human emotion? Sherlock almost shuddered. He had never experienced it before, but he had seen it time and time again with husbands and wives and adultery and lovers. Too many dull murders he had come across could be traced to that motive. So predictable. So obvious. Neither of which described Sherlock, but he was feeling _it_ all the same. He had to be. There was no other explanation for the facts. John declared to have plans with Sarah. Sarah. Waltzing into their lives, messing up the balance, throwing him off. The case now was almost abandoned as he lost all ability to concentrate after the mere mention of one little date of theirs.

He could trace this inkling of jealousy as far back as when he first heard about Sarah, but the feeling wasn't as strong as he felt it now. Ergo, his attachment to John must have grown. His emotional attachment? Physical? He didn't even know how to classify it. As Mycroft put it, him _'liking'_ John.

Sherlock shuddered for real this time. He didn't even know himself anymore. Thinking about emotions towards others, and in regards to himself. He never used to care. He was above all of that. John, though, seemed to have found a way around this unintentionally or not. John.

Funnily enough, Sherlock didn't think he regretted it. But Mycroft was right about something: he couldn't let John leave. He knew that now and believed it with his whole mind.

He needed John all to himself. Otherwise, he encountered problems like this, which take his mind thoroughly away from his work. His work was all he had right now. Now, how to get John all to himself. He could research Sarah and reveal her deepest, darkest secrets and then John would have no choice but to dump—no. John might not like that.

Go to Sarah and threaten her to get away from—bad. That would probably be bad. John wouldn't like that much either.

He paced around the flat, kicking random objects that were unfortunate enough to be in his path, attempting to think of a play to rid his world of Sarah. Sherlock's hands slipped into his pockets while he thought. His fingers brushed against a small slip of paper. Sherlock abruptly stopped walking as his heart skipped a beat. Of course! How could he be so thick? This number! This was the missing piece of the puzzle that was this whole damn crazy day.

This number, he thought, as he held the paper up to the dim light by the dusty window, will help him solve everything. If he came to terms with his _feelings_ because of jealousy and a bit of nudging, than why couldn't John?

If Mycroft was right about John unknowingly liking him back, than a little jealousy would do him good. Sherlock would show John that he was the only person he could ever be with. No one, not even _Sarah_, would be there like Sherlock could. He knew he could barely tolerate Jim, but if it gave him back his sanity, his ability to work and John, he would do anything.

Sherlock grabbed his phone from where he had left it by the couch and dialed the number. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Nothing. Sherlock's heart dropped. Perhaps this Jim guy wasn't interested anymore.

The fourth ring was suddenly cut off though. Jim had presumably picked up. All he could hear was soft breathing on the other end. As the silence stretched out, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but continued on, for John. "Hello?"


	3. Chapter 3

Rights to Sherlock go to the fabulous people at BBC, including Moffat and Gatiss. They have my eternal love and jealousy. XD

**_Previously_**

_The fourth ring was suddenly cut off though. Jim had presumably picked up. All he could hear was soft breathing on the other end. As the silence stretched out, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but continued on, for John. "Hello?"_

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><p>The quiet breathing cut off abruptly. "Hello?" the voice on the other end asked, sounding slightly confused in a breathy, high-pitched voice.<p>

Sherlock took a deep breath to steady himself. He faked human interaction all the time. Why was this conversation bothering him so much? Nothing about this should be new. "Hello. This… this is Sherlock Holmes. You know, the one from St. Barts?"

"Sherlock?" the man answered excitedly. He sounded like a 4-year-old who had just been told he would get a second birthday party. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"I do remember just saying that," Sherlock retorted before he could stop himself.

The man ignored him. "This is brilliant! I feel so honored that you called. To be honest, I didn't think you were… you know… that into me." He laughed nervously, an almost metallic sound.

Sherlock cringed. This was nothing like John's laugh. Or his brilliantly cute giggling. Nothing really—wait a second. Sherlock stopped dead in his line of thought. Cute? When did he start calling things cute? Sherlock shrugged it off for now and forced himself to listen to the grating voice on the line who was still rambling on.

"And I really like your work, as it has—"

Sherlock cut him off. "Listen. I called with a purpose. We can…" Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "…talk later. I don't know exactly what you were looking for, but I'm free tomorrow afternoon if you would like to go for lunch. Unless your girlfriend has other plans."

The line went quiet for a bit. Sherlock nervously tapped the phone with his fingers as he waited for a reply. If this didn't work… he was going to have to think up a new plan. One that he probably would like even less.

Sherlock almost thought that the line was dead, if it weren't for the faint clicking in the background. Computer maybe? He couldn't exactly be sure.

"I would love to go on a date with you!" Jim perked up suddenly. Sherlock had to stop himself from jumping and then cringing at the same time. He shifted uncomfortably where he stood. Sherlock knew that he should just ignore the uneasy feeling this guy was giving him. It must just be this date idea he was suggesting, but it was necessary for his plan. He just had to keep telling himself this was for John.

"This is more than I could have dreamed for! Where would you like to go?" Jim's enthusiasm was putting Sherlock off more than Anderson's face did in week. He was beginning to regret this. John, he whispered to himself. John. He could do this.

"I was thinking that café on Crawford Street. The Thai food place called Two-Point."

"Oh that sounds delightful! What time would you prefer? I'm free after 4."

Sherlock didn't understand how one could be that cheery. It just wasn't natural. He'd had enough with this conversation and it needed to end as soon as possible. He wasn't sure how he'd be able to stand a whole meal with the man.

"5 is fine with me. I'll meet you outside the café." Sherlock abruptly hung up and threw the phone on the couch.

Everything about this bothered him, but it was the only plan he could think of that could give him the results he wanted as soon as possible. He needed to get his concentration back for his case.

Sherlock lay back down on the couch in quiet contemplation in a useless attempt to work on the case. His mind, as it had the entire day, kept on wandering back to John.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and just focused on his breathing. Now that he had a plan, he was beginning to calm down. He was a man of action, and since he had determined what was happening and was on his way to resolving it, he knew he soon would be free of everything that was clouding his judgment and reasoning. His brain was his most important asset and he wasn't going to lose it now to emotions and _feelings_.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, it was dark outside. It must be past midnight.

Sherlock quickly logged on to John's laptop and typed the answer of Carl Powers and poison into an entry for his Science of Deduction website. He checked the pink phone for a new message, but nothing came. He felt like he should be worrying about this, but his mind was a bit preoccupied.

Someone was coming through the door below, attempting and failing at being as quiet as they could. John. Sherlock sat up impulsively, feeling like he had received an electric shock. John. Why was this suddenly such a big deal? Had it always been, and he just hadn't recognized it until the truth was shoved in his face? He felt like he was becoming the person he had sworn to avoid at all costs. And he wasn't fighting it much at all.

He looked at his hands. What do people usually do with these? He straightened his suit jacket, and then fumbled his hands through his dark curls quickly, before settling them on his lap for a half second. He shook his head. Now that's definitely not natural. Panic was rising as the slow footsteps reached near the top of the stairs.

Sherlock took a deep breath as John reached the top step. John turned away from Sherlock to clumsily put his coat up on the hook. Sherlock started wondering if hearts could actually beat as fast as his without giving out. Perhaps he was nearing a heart attack.

John slowly turned around to Sherlock, who immediately attempted to look disinterested.

John sighed, and shuffled to his chair to sit down. He placed his head in his hands, rubbing his temple. Sherlock immediately deduced, from his overall disheveled appearance, the smell of alcohol and grime, but his collared shirt still tucked into the pants, that John had gone out to a pub with Sarah, but thankfully nothing happened.

Sherlock gave a little sigh of relief. He looked at John, who was clearly drunk.

John slowly looked up as well, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him.

"How did it go?" Sherlock tried to ask nonchalantly.

"Bloody awful," John slurred. He laid his head back so that it was resting on the back of the chair cushion.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring at his slightly tanned, exposed neck. His heart was starting to speed up again.

"Well, how about you get ready for bed then?" Sherlock suggested hesitantly. He wanted to ask John now so badly, ask him the question that would settle everything once and for all. With this answer, he could cancel the horrible plans for tomorrow. Or switch his strategy to something more aggressive.

"Mmhmm," John replied and started an attempt to sit up. Sherlock watched as John placed his hands on the arm rests, trying to push himself up. This was too much for John and he slumped back down on the chair.

"Sherlock," John spoke up suddenly, looking at him with unfocused eyes. "Sh-Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" Sherlock had to force himself to not immediately run to John's side.

"I… was wondering… if you'd li—if you'd like to g-go…"

John was interrupted by a ringing and buzzing. His brow crinkled up in confusion, as he half-heartedly looked around for the source of the noise.

Sherlock jumped. The buzzing was coming from behind him on the couch. He turned around to see his phone screen lit up. Annoyed that someone would dare interrupt John, he quickly checked who he would get to direct his irritation at.

Just a number appeared on the screen, the number, after a second, he recognized as Jim's.

Sherlock felt anger flare up in his chest. What did this insignificant man have to say that was so important at 1:34 am? Sherlock clicked the open button for the message on his phone.

_Hiiii sexxy. 3 Thinking of u. Can't w8 for 2morrow. xoxo_

Sherlock, growling, threw the phone down on the floor, where it bounced under the coffee table. What was wrong with that man? Is this how people normally act before a date? Because then it's fantastic he's avoided them thus far. If he did ever… go out… with John, he would personally ensure none of this ever occurred.

John started giggling. "Sherlock. Your phone… that's not how you…" He then seemed unable to force out any more words between his giggles.

Sherlock allowed himself a smile as he looked at John in this state. He got up and walked over to him.

"Time for bed John."

Still giggling, John got up from the chair, grasping Sherlock's arm, as he pulled him up. Not letting go of Sherlock's arm, John attempted to walk upstairs. Sherlock was half carrying the smaller man by the time they reached the top.

Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of how much easier this would be if John didn't have to walk up any stairs to get to his room… their room.

They walked into John's room where John immediately collapsed into his bed, still muttering nonsense about Sherlock's phone and giggling intermittently. He pulled the covers over John as best as he could.

Sherlock walked back to the door, his hand on the knob, ready to close it.

"Good night John," Sherlock said with a slight smile as he looked down upon a nearly asleep John, before closing the door.

The next morning, John walked downstairs wearing one of his typical bland jumpers to see Sherlock in his armchair, reading the morning Times. John was moving like he was walking through gravy.

Sherlock watched him through the corner of his eye, as John glanced at him while mussing his hair with his hand before walking into the kitchen to presumably make tea.

Sherlock heard water running, and then the clang of the kettle being thrown on the stove. Sherlock smirked. How very English that John's cure for a hangover was a pot of Earl Gray.

Sherlock quietly flipped through the paper, pretending to be absorbed in it, as John sat down in his armchair. John cleared his throat.

"Would you like some tea? I put the kettle on."

Sherlock looked up. "Yes, that would be great," he replied with the faintest hint of a smile, before returning to his paper.

John nodded and looked awkwardly around the room. The kettle whistled and John bolted up for something to do.

Having prepared the two mugs of tea, John placed one in front of Sherlock and took his to his armchair.

"Have you seen my phone?" John asked.

"Sorry, what?"

"My phone. I had it last night, but I don't remember if I came home with it or not."

"I haven't seen it around John. Sorry. Perhaps it's in your coat pocket. You were a bit out of it last night."

This was it, thought Sherlock. This was when he was going to find out exactly how well his plan was really going to work tonight. Continuing to look completely disinterested, Sherlock glanced over the top of his paper to John.

"I was wondering if I could have a bit of advice. As you are more… knowledgeable in these affairs than me."

John licked his lips and tilted his head slightly in confusion. "Advice with what?"

"Of the romantic nature," Sherlock replied promptly and returned to his paper. He let that sink in.

"I'm sorry… what? But… What?" John sputtered.

"You see, oh, this is embarrassing." Sherlock threw in an eye roll for added effect. "But I have a… what do you people call it… a date later today, and I was wondering what would be the right romantic gesture for a first date. As you have much more experience with me in this, I'd thought I would consult you." Sherlock could feel his glee levels rising as he watched John's face turn from incredibility to outright shock.

"You? Have a date?"

"Yes, John, that's what I said. You know I hate repeating myself."

"But what about 'married to your work'?"

Sherlock hesitated. He had forgotten he had even said something like that. But that was before he had known what John would become to him, what he would mean to him. He really had changed so much since John became his flatmate; it was particularly unnerving how much influence John had had over his life and his personality in such a short time. It was unsettling that Sherlock had let him, had welcomed him in. Perhaps Sherlock, the master observer, hadn't even noticed the biggest change of all, until it was too late. Sherlock opened and then closed his mouth, trying to figure out how to word this.

"And I still am. For now perhaps. If the right person were to come around…." Sherlock stopped again, closing his eyes. "Marriage is divorceable. Besides, it doesn't mean I can't have a little date every once in a while."

John just stood there with his mouth open. "With who then?"

"Remember that guy yesterday?"

"What guy? The bloke that gave you the number? Oh Sherlock." John sighed. "Please don't tell me you think that's your idea of the 'right person'. And he's dating Molly! You can't—"

"Molly knows the truth now anyway. We're eating at the Two-Point."

John stopped mid-rant. "Isn't that the place across from my surgery?" he asked, looking confused again.

Sherlock smiled. "It is, isn't it? Jim picked it out. I hear their Thai is delicious."

"From me!" John shouted indigently. "What's going on Sherlock? What are you doing? This isn't like you."

"Can't a man have a nice date this afternoon at around 5?"

John just stared at him with a mix of confusion and anger.

"Bugger off." With that John jumped up from his chair and strode upstairs.

Several minutes later, John walked down, carrying his bag. He threw on his coat without a word, and ran down the stairs, slamming the door on his way out.

Sherlock picked up his violin, smiling to himself. That went well. If that wasn't jealousy, than he didn't know what was. He couldn't wait for the grand finale. By tonight, John would be his.

As 4:30 rolled around, Sherlock grabbed his coat, nervously adjusted the lapels. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror quickly. He really didn't need to look good for this 'date' because there was no one to impress, but that didn't stop him from feeling slightly self-conscious. This was his first date ever, and that usually meant a lot to regular people.

Shrugging it off, like he was doing so much lately, Sherlock ran down the stairs to outside where he called a cab. The Two-Point wasn't too far away, right across from John's surgery like he said, but he wasn't in the mood to walk.

As the cab pulled in front of the café, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could see a man wearing a nice pair of slacks and a collared shirt standing in front of the café that had to be Jim. The cab stopped and Sherlock stepped out.

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><p>Thanks again to everyone who's reading this, reviewing and favoriting. You guys are the best. :D I will give you all now stuffed giraffes. Stuffed giraffes are cool.<p>

Things will obviously pick up even more in the next chapter, so stay tuned for updates! :D


	4. Chapter 4

_All characters are property of ACD, the BBC, Moffat, and Gatiss. I just bend them to my will._

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><p>Immediately, Sherlock swept his eyes across Jim to see what more he could deduce purely out of instinct. Jim was facing away from him, looking down the wrong side the street, probably on his phone making more of those idiotic texts.<p>

He was wearing more formal clothes today instead of that ridiculous get-up when Sherlock last saw him, clothes that were also deceivingly more expensive than they looked. He had dressed up for the date then. The slacks fit perfectly, perhaps custom made. From the back of his head, what he could see of Jim's hair was perfectly combed like before, with product. He was wearing a light pink collared shirt which highlighted his slim figure. This, of course, all fit into his previous assessment of Jim being gay, but something was off, something Sherlock couldn't place his finger on. This made him slightly uneasy, as it rarely ever happened. His eyes lingered over the man's torso trying to figure out what could be the problem. Perhaps he was too neat-looking, or he fit the gay profile too well… Sherlock shook his head. He needed to stop making excuses for not doing this and just face the mission at hand.

"Jim?" Sherlock asked, a bit more hesitantly that he would have liked. He needed to play all of this up for his audience. As this café was directly across from John's surgery, Sherlock wanted to make the most of this plan to get what he wanted: John.

The man turned around. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed, holding his arms out if expecting a hug.

Sherlock stiffly nodded, patently ignoring him. "Hello."

Jim was smiling so widely that he was showing all of his teeth, giving the impression of a piranha. When Sherlock didn't step towards Jim, Jim slowly lowered his arms, placing his hands in his pockets. He didn't look disheartened at all.

"You have no idea how much I have been looking forward to this," Jim said, without losing his smile.

"Right," said Sherlock, gesturing towards the café. "Shall we?"

Jim just smiled even wider, if that was possible, and walked ahead of Sherlock into the café. They gave their orders to a pretty young girl at the counter. Jim was so overly polite to her that Sherlock couldn't stop himself from cringing and looking away. No one was this nice. Well, John… but that was different. And John was never as syrupy-sweet as how Jim was acting.

"We will sit outside," Sherlock stated, as they were handed their food.

"Outside?" Jim asked, slightly tilting his head and raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Yes," Sherlock said firmly. "Lovely weather and all that."

They both looked out the window to the grey sky outside, as a woman walked by with a large overcoat on.

Jim looked back to Sherlock with a brief blank expression on his face, which Sherlock found even more unnerving than his smile. For a brief instant, Sherlock could see the wheels clicking in this man's mind. He could see the man looking through him, into him, perhaps similar to the way he did to everyone else. It shook Sherlock to his core, causing him to slightly open his mouth in surprise. The expression melted back into the smile, into the same vacant expression he had always seen.

Who was this man? Sherlock shook his head. Did he really just see what he thought he did? And what did it mean? Sherlock started to wonder if he was going insane. He didn't understand what was happening anymore. Maybe he had lost all of his ability to read people. He never observed that John liked him, which seemed like a major error on his part. That was something he had trained himself to pick up on instantly. Now this man was able to switch expressions in a manner that he had observed in only a few people in his entire life, namely himself and his brother, Mycroft.

"Of course!" Jim exclaimed, striding outside. Sherlock, for a second, was just rooted to the spot, still staring at the man. Whatever was up with him wasn't important. Sherlock was here for John. After this date, he would never see him again.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Sherlock followed out the door. This was going to be an interesting meal. He just had to get through about 20 minutes of it, though if Jim showed anything else like he just saw, it might be a bit better than he expected. Who knows what this man may be hiding? He deceived star struck Molly pretty well, though that probably wasn't too complicated to do. Sherlock glanced at his phone, trying to return his thoughts to the real problem.

It was about 5:10 now. John typically left the surgery at around 5:30. He would walk past the restaurant, see Sherlock on a proper date with Jim, and boom! Instant jealousy. When he confronted Sherlock later about his date, Sherlock would point out the irrefutable evidence of his jealousy in order to prove the feelings John had for Sherlock. John would have no choice but to accept this as the truth, and allow the beginning of some sort of relationship between them. As much as Sherlock hated the idea of being tied down in something as silly as a relationship, he knew that this would keep John from being with anyone else. Therefore, Sherlock would never get jealous himself, and he would never be this distracted from a case again. Brilliant! Sherlock smiled just thinking about it.

Jim looked at him as they sat down across from each other at one of the tables outside, apparently noticing the rare smile.

There was a minute of awkward silence, as they both started eating their curry.

Sherlock had made sure that he was facing the surgery, and that he was keeping one eye on it at all times for John's departure.

"Sooo…" Jim started, gesturing with his chopsticks towards Sherlock. "I've been hearing from everyone in St. Barts about how brilliant you are at looking at people and knowing everything about them by how they dress or whatever." Jim leaned in, looking as eager as ever.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Brilliant?"

"Yes, of course! Would you be able to show me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes mentally. This was just pathetic. He looked like a dog begging. He had 20 minutes to kill. Why not?

"Sure. Who do you want to me to deduce?"

Jim quickly looked around. "Err… How about that man walking across the street? The one with the blue coat, carrying the brown laptop bag. Terrible style, really."

Sherlock quickly found the man Jim was pointing towards, and gave him the usual sweeping gaze, picking up every minute detail about him. He was leaving the surgery and headed right before hailing a cab, which looked like it was going to take him north.

Sherlock turned back to Jim. Going for the dramatic pause, Sherlock took a bite of his food.

Jim just sat there looking expectant. Sherlock put down his chopsticks, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and gave a fake smile.

"The man is around 47. He is a janitor. He has been having money problems recently but things are looking up for him. He's married, but not very happily. He has more than one child. He likes to paint in his free time. And… that's pretty much all I can glean from him. If I were to get closer, I would be able to tell you more. Hopefully that was adequate."

Jim was silent for a second, as if he was stunned into silence. His eyes, though, were telling Sherlock a different story. They looked oddly triumphant, though in a diminished manner, like he was trying to suppress it. If Sherlock wasn't who he was, he would have never picked up on it. Even Sherlock wasn't exactly sure of what he was seeing, if he was even seeing anything. But his gut told him he was right.

"Yes, very much so," Jim replied, after taking a sip of his water. "That was most… insightful. If you could share how you came to those conclusions…"

Sherlock looked down to his food, and then back to the door of John's surgery. He normally never shared how he reached his deductions. John, like always, was the exception. He was definitely not revealing anything to Jim anytime soon. He glanced down at his phone which read 5:35. Any minute now, John would be coming out. Sherlock had to be ready.

He grabbed Jim's hand, in a sudden fit of urgency. He needed this to work. Jim looked down with surprise and smiled, hopefully forgetting his question. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's. Sherlock had to force himself not to cringe. Jim's hand just didn't feel right. It didn't fit with his like he imagined John's would.

Sherlock could feel Jim softly stroking his palm with his thumb. Sherlock glanced back to the surgery. Any moment now John would get out. Any moment.

He turned back to Jim in an effort to look like he was enjoying himself.

He tossed ideas around in his mind as to what people normally talked about. He dreaded small talk in all forms. He looked up at the sky. Weather. That's dull enough for normal people. He believed they talked about this painfully obvious topic all the time for reasons he still didn't fully comprehend.

"Uhhh… we might have rain soon?" Sherlock asked.

Jim looked into his eyes, his thumb still stroking Sherlock's hand. He leaned in a little further. Sherlock resisted the urge to pull away.

"Yes," Jim answered, with a knowing smile. "We just might. I just love a good thunderstorm, don't you?" He paused, perhaps waiting for Sherlock to answer. When there was no reply, Jim continued breathlessly. "The sheer power contained in a single cell. It's fantastic. All that energy, all that electricity, just waiting to be released. And it wants too. It just can't wait to show the world what it can do. The destruction it can release. Especially the ones that look so harmless, but deliver the greatest devastation."

Jim leaned in even further, wrapping his other hand around Sherlock's free one that had been itching to look at his phone again. No sign of John.

"But I'm sure you of all people understand, Sherlock." Jim was staring deeply into Sherlock's eyes, acting as if Sherlock knew what he was going on about, as if trying to will Sherlock to pick up on what he was referring to.

Sherlock was sure he was starting to look like he had some sort of eye problem, as they kept jumping rapidly from Jim's face to the surgery door. Jim was acting different; this was now obvious. Once again, he couldn't put his finger on it, but he was unquestionably not the Jim that he saw at the hospital, or the one he talked to on the phone, or even the same one from earlier in this date. The way this Jim held himself was different. Even though he was leaning, he seemed to hold himself straighter, prouder, stronger. The manically intelligent gleam that Sherlock had glimpsed briefly earlier had returned to his eyes. Even the smirk that his face held was decidedly not Jim's. It was just a little too off-kilter and unnatural.

Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled his hands away from Jim's quickly, knowing that he probably had to get out of here soon. This man, whoever he was, was making him extremely uncomfortable, and that was no small feat. He might be able to stay long enough for John, but after that, he would be gone faster than he could steal a badge out of Lestrade's pocket.

Jim looked down at his hands on the table like he couldn't believe what just happened.

Snatching up his phone, Sherlock looked at the time. 5:50. It was too late, thought Sherlock, as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. John should have come by now. It was Thursday and John _always_ got out by at least 5:35, even on the busiest days. He definitely could not have just missed John either. He had been on alert for any sign of him the entire time. Sherlock was starting to get the feeling that could only be classified as worried. And Sherlock Holmes is never worried.

Sherlock nervously texted John, sending him a simple "Where are you?" text message. It was the kind that he sent all the time, when he needed John to get him tea, or his laptop. Right now he just needed John.

He looked back at Not-Jim, with a slight smile, as he vaguely thought that the situation between them could only be classified as awkward after Sherlock pulled away.

"Sorry. Important message I needed to send. It really couldn't wait."

"Oh aren't you precious!" Not-Jim exclaimed in a merry tone.

That was it. Sherlock couldn't take much more of this. With no reply yet from John, Sherlock had enough. Deciding that perhaps he could think of a different, better plan to get John, Sherlock moved his chair back to get up.

Not-Jim made a disapproving, impatient noise in his throat. "Not so fast there Sherlock. We have soooooo much more to talk about."

Sherlock stood, towering over the man. "I don't think so. I really think we're done here actually."

Not-Jim's face suddenly became hard, his mouth curving down, eyes became slits, and his eyebrows furrowed together. "And I really couldn't disagree more," he said, his voice matching his stony expression. There was venom in the words that frightened Sherlock to his core.

His expression became gleeful once again, unsettling Sherlock on how fast it could change. His hand reached into his pant pocket pulling out a beat-up phone. "That is, if you want to see Dr. John H. Watson again."

Sherlock was dumbstruck as he glanced at the phone. "John?" Sherlock finally managed, whispering. That was John's phone sitting in his hand.

"That's right. John Watson. Your little pet. The one you've been mooning over to make his entrance for the past 30 minutes? Oh he isn't coming, baby. It's just you and me." He held up the phone. "I nicked this off him yesterday. I couldn't have you contacting him with any last minute changes to your decision to a date with me. That wouldn't have been nice at all."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for what may have been almost a minute. He couldn't process what had just happened.

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked, his hands shaking as he tightly gripped his phone to type out another text.

"Me, tell you? And ruin all the fun? See, I had this great big game planned for the two of us. It would have gone spectacularly if you had just played along. I know you would have enjoyed it as much as me, but you decided to fizzle out on the first round. Booooring. I couldn't have that. So when you called me, which I was not expecting at all by the way, I decided to skip ahead to the grand finale! I just love switching things up. I'm sooooo changeable. I think this little scene would have gone down a bit differently, perhaps with some swimming and semtex, but I'm sure you get the gist. I've changed the rules, Sherlock, and you'll need to work fast to catch up."

"Moriarty?" whispered Sherlock, as the truth finally hit him like a brick wall. His brain felt like it was moving through quicksand. The more he struggled, the harder it was to get out.

"Bingo! We have a winner! You're being frightfully slow today, Sherlock. Like with that man earlier. A little hint for you, he was definitely not a janitor. Hopefully you're not losing your touch. Your precious John won't last long if that's the case. And it won't be any fun for me either. I was rather hoping you'd be a worthy opponent. So far it's been a bit disappointing. I mean, you didn't even give me a kiss!" Moriarty laughed. "There's still time for that though, if you like."

Sherlock couldn't think of anything he wanted less. "Where is he?" Sherlock repeated, distressed.

"Oh, alright, I obviously won't tell you where John is, but you have 5 hours to figure it out. Toodles! I will definitely see you soon." Jim got up, walked past Sherlock, who was still in a daze, and headed towards a white car that had just pulled up on the curb.

"Sherlock?" Moriary suddenly called out, with one foot already in the car. Sherlock spun around to face him, with wide eyes filled with fear and confusion. "If you're really in as bad of form as I've seen today, I think you'll need another hint. I would start with the surgery." Moriarty gave another piranha smile and slid into the car as he closed the door. The car immediately drove off, getting lost in the sea of rush hour traffic. It was a very common car and Sherlock was sure the license plates would not lead anywhere.

Sherlock felt like he had received a jolt of energy and a dose of reality. John. John was out there, alive, dead, being tortured… in danger, because of his stupidity. He had to stop this. He had to. He would stop this. Sherlock felt a grim reality sink in. Nothing else mattered anymore. Moriarty wasn't going to get away with threatening him or anyone he cared about ever again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey guys! Sorry about the wait. RL got in the way. Went home, school started again, hurricane, you know the usual. XD_

_Disclaimer: All rights to BBC, ACD, Moffat, Gatiss, etc. Lucky them._

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><p>Sherlock ran up to the street, frantically searching John's phone for any clue as to where he could be. Moriarty had the phone in his hands since at least last night, probably earlier. Who knows what he could have left hidden away in it for Sherlock to find?<p>

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock bolted across the street to John's surgery, his heart pounding in his chest like an angry drum. Moriarty hinted this was where he should start and he couldn't just ignore such a blatant suggestion when John's life was at stake. It possibly could be a trap, but Sherlock didn't have time to care about his own wellbeing.

Sherlock managed to dodge several honking cars, one of which just barely missed hitting him. He avoided it by hurling himself over the front of it, and sliding safely to the other side. Quickly recovering, he sprinted up the surgery door, and threw it open.

The receptionist looked up, staring at Sherlock's crazed expression. Several others in the waiting area also glanced up and found themselves being unable to look away from the pain and fear clearly etched all over his face. Sherlock had never felt this exposed in his life.

He quickly took a deep breath and attempted to bury all the rampant emotions currently swirling inside of him. He was getting better at identifying them. Hurt, worry, fear, and something else, something that was the most painful of them all, but he still couldn't tell exactly what it was. He had a hunch though, but everything was pushed aside for now. Finding John was the most important task at the moment and nothing, _nothing_, would stop him.

His face was now a blank slate, with only a vestige of the panic, obvious only a second ago, left hidden behind his eyes. The receptionist looked startled as Sherlock approached her.

"Can I help—"

"John Watson. He's a doctor here. Is he available?"

The receptionist momentarily crinkled her eyes in confusion, but her expression cleared almost as quickly.

"Unfortunately, sir, Dr. Watson had to go home due to illness earlier today. There are plenty of other doctors on call right now. I can put your name—"

"Illness? What illness?"

"He didn't specify," she replied crisply, apparently trying to indicate that it was none of his business.

"Did he leave any note; did he say anything? Who did he see last before he left? Who did he tell about the illness?" Sherlock asked in rapid succession.

"Who are you exactly?" the woman questioned suspiciously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sherlock Holmes."

There was a slight recognition of his name in the woman's face. "Hold on," she said, and got up and went through a set of wide white doors.

A minute later, she came back with another woman who he recognized as Sarah. Finally here was someone who may be able to give him some real answers, though his stomach churned a bit at seeing her again. It was the remnants of the jealousy he had felt earlier, which seemed like a lifetime ago.

"What did John say to you before he left?" Sherlock asked a bit more coldly than usual, squeezing John's phone he was still holding in his right hand in anticipation.

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "What's wrong, Sherlock? John was just not feeling well, and so he went home. Is there something else that happened?"

Sherlock ignored her questions. "The exact message, as exactly as your little brain can remember it. What did he say?"

Shaking her head, Sarah took out a sheet of paper from her pocket. "He didn't say much, really. Just that he was having some problems here at work, and he thought he would feel better if he went home to rest a bit."

"Who was his last patient before he claimed to be sick?"

She motioned to the receptionist who was back at her desk. "Look it up for him."

The woman looked a bit disgruntled, but complied. After a minute of typing, she looked up. "A Mr. Brian Harding."

"What time exactly was this and do you remember what he looked like?"

Sarah looked at the time on her phone. "It must have been around 11:30 am. He was slim, with dirty blonde hair, about 12 stones. He was a bit grubby looking. Nothing really ended up being wrong with him I think. He left at around the same time as John." She paused for a moment, thinking. "Really, at exactly the same time as him. This paper was left in his room in a corner behind a desk. I only picked it up because I was going to ask him about it later." She held out the paper, which Sherlock snatched up in an instant.

He studied the paper, taking in every detail. It was John's handwriting, although a bit more messy than usual. He looked at it closer. John was in a hurry when he was writing it, but there were still indents in the paper after several words where it was clear he hesitated before continuing to write. The paper was the surgery's and the ink was from a cheap pen that would be found in this type of place. It was a bit crumpled, but this could be attributed from being in Sarah's pocket.

Sherlock turned his focus to the written message, and his face adapted a grim clarity as he understood exactly what it meant.

Scrawled on the page were the words:

_Menu Tools Password Keeper_

_John won't be screaming much longer if you continue to be this imbecilic._

The words sent chills down Sherlock's back, even though he knew Moriarty was just taunting him. Just the fact that it was John's handwriting inscribing his own fate was enough to unhinge what was left of Sherlock's clear state of mind. John had been in Moriarty's hands for over 6 hours now without Sherlock being aware at all. A small alarm went off in the back of his head. Mycroft should have known about this; somehow, with all his little spies and cameras everywhere, he should have known and prevented everything. Sherlock felt fury build up in his chest. Clenching John's phone in his hands and making a mental note to kill Mycroft in a few minutes, Sherlock turned it on and followed the instructions on the paper.

He pressed the menu button, and then chose the Tools icon that popped up on the screen. Sherlock thumbed down the list of options that appeared until he found one of the last ones on the list: password keeper.

Clicking on that, he paused as the screen prompted him to type a password.

Sherlock closed his eyes. What sort of password would Moriarty place for him? There were ones he could set that Sherlock would never guess, but Sherlock knew that wouldn't be the case here. This was personal for Moriarty, for whatever reason.

He and Moriarty were similar, he realized, in a number of ways. They were both geniuses, surrounded by idiots for their entire lives, forced to deal with the simple-minded people who inhabited this small planet. They both saw the world differently, constantly searching for new puzzles to occupy themselves with during long stretches of tedious boredom; the world was only a toy to be played with, an object to manipulate to their whim. Moriarty, though, had taken this to the extreme.

Thoughts of John and his current predicament crashed into the front of his mind once again. The worry, distress, and dread that he felt deep in his chest over John's kidnapping was on a level that he had never felt before in his life. When he was three, he lost his bug net that his father had gotten him for his birthday while out on a Sunday holiday. He begged and begged Mycroft to return back to the little spot on the creek where he was sure he left it, but they were late for meeting up with Mother back at the house. Mycroft later brought him a new one after school one day, which he accepted with some amount of distaste, a feeling that was quickly overcome by the excitement of being able to explore again.

The bug net was replaceable, but nothing could replace John. John was the most unique and intriguing individual he had ever met. He had felt some amount of loss for leaving his bug net, but this was nothing compared to what he felt for John currently. He had never had someone in his life before like John, and the fear slicing through his heart told him that he was unlikely to ever find someone like him again. If Moriarty killed John, he would be alone.

Alone used to be a positive thing for Sherlock. It was where he would find solitude, peace; where he was able to thrive in his element, and do his best work. John had uprooted everything in his life. Sherlock realized that alone, a world without John, was a place where he did not want to be.

As his thoughts lingered on his mental image of John's face: his rough, slightly tanned skin, his cropped sandy hair, the light grey eyes that often flickered with amusement or rolled in annoyance, his mouth that had the wonderful ability to flip from a smile to a frown in seconds, Sherlock felt a growing ache in his chest, a wholly unfamiliar feeling that had been gradually becoming increasingly stronger for some unknown time, apparently without him even noticing.

Opening his eyes, Sherlock turned his head away from Sarah and the receptionist who were both looking a bit concerned.

"Sherlock? What's going on?" Sarah asked softly. "Is there anything I can do to help?" From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see her reaching forward to place her hand on his arm.

Annoyance flashing through him like lightning, Sherlock twisted around rapidly to face them, his face contorted. "Nothing! I have to go." He was not going to be pitied or looked after. He got John in this mess, and he was going to get him out. It was his fault, and now he may never see him.

This password wasn't something that was obvious yet so he needed to go elsewhere to figure it out. He could feel the frustration building up inside of him, that perhaps he wasn't clever enough to figure out what Moriarty had laid out for him, that he would not be able to save John. Sherlock couldn't think of a worse situation; for all that he bragged about his cleverness, he failed John in a real battle of wits with an actual adversary.

Back out on the street again, Sherlock took off running towards Baker Street. It was so close and getting in a cab would only waste time. His feet pounding on the ground harmonized with his heart hammering against his ribcage.

Throwing open the front door of 221b, and dashing up the stairs, Sherlock abruptly halted in his steps as he turned into the living room, breathing heavily. His eyes narrowed. A man he very much wanted to have a few choice words with was sitting in his armchair.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey guys! I am so sorry about not updating this in forever. RL has been trying to murder me with work. But I have a chapter for you all! I hope you enjoy it. If there is anyone still reading this. XD

As always, all rights to Moffat, Gatiss, ACD and the BBC.

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><p><em>Previously:<em>

Back out on the street again, Sherlock took off running towards Baker Street. It was so close and getting in a cab would only waste time. His feet pounding on the ground harmonized with his heart hammering against his ribcage.

Throwing open the front door of 221b, and dashing up the stairs, Sherlock abruptly halted in his steps as he turned into the living room, breathing heavily. His eyes narrowed. A man he very much wanted to have a few choice words with was sitting in his armchair.

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><p><em>Gray's Anatomy<em> hit the wall followed shortly by three medical journals and a glass, which was the loudest of them all as it shattered upon impact and fell to the ground. Mycroft sighed and shook his head as he adjusted his sitting position on the armchair to face where Sherlock had stormed off into the kitchen to throw more things around as he yelled furiously.

"How could you? YOU of all people let this happen? Now John's out there having god knows what done to him and he has…" Sherlock glanced at his phone. "Three hours and forty-five minutes for me to figure this out so that I can save him and—" Sherlock threw a bowl against the wall.

"Really Sherlock, is this the best use of your time?" Mycroft replied, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock turned to him, glaring venomously.

"I do my best, but Moriarty is really quite tricky. I hadn't even picked up on him until this… incident."

"You? You mean the British intelligence agencies and all your 'people'. And _they_ couldn't stop one man from being kidnapped? I thought you had people tailing him. Or at least the CCTV trained on him at all times! Some variety of the tedious Big Brother scenario. All you of the government mold are-"

"Sherlock"

"—abhorrently uncreative and, frankly, idiots—"

"Sherlock"

"And now John's been taken by a man you have no intelligence on, who appears to be a powerful criminal mastermind—"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, ramming his umbrella into the ground like a staff as he stood up.

Sherlock stopped ranting, his eyes shooting daggers at Mycroft.

"You need to calm down," said Mycroft slowly and evenly. "Getting yourself worked up like this will do you no favors in finding John. He needs you, Sherlock. Like you said, you have little time left."

Sherlock took a deep breath and really began to look at his surroundings in the room. John would never want to see him in this sort of state. He bent over to pick up the Gray's Anatomy volume, which was lying with the pages splayed out, and spine in the air. He glanced over to the bookshelf, and immediately dropped the book again.

Mycroft opened his mouth slightly in question but just watched as Sherlock bolted over to the stuffed bookshelf, leaving the tome on the floor forgotten.

Sherlock scanned the second shelf from the top, sliding his long finger across the books carefully placed side by side, the one spot of order in the chaotic flat. Near the end, his finger stopped on a well-worn novel, which he pulled out.

Turning it over carefully, Sherlock scanned the back and front covers.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Mycroft spoke up. "Sherlock, what is it?"

"The Art of War, by Sun Tzu," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "And what about it?"

Glancing up at Mycroft, Sherlock opened the book. "Neither John nor I own it."

His hand ghosting over the pages, Sherlock tried to grasp of the significance of the book that was placed not so subtly in his room.

Practically without even thinking about it, his other hand dropped to his coat pocket, where he pulled out John's phone. Sherlock quickly thumbed back to the password screen and typed in 'artofwar'. Holding his breath slightly, Sherlock waited as the screen disappeared and a new one appeared. It was a picture.

Before Sherlock could get a really good look at it, the phone started vibrating and blasting an ear-splitting rendition of 'Baby' by Justin Bieber.

"Oh god, answer that immediately," Mycroft hissed as he ran over behind Sherlock to look over his shoulder.

Sherlock clicked the accept call button on the phone and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" Sherlock said tentatively. There was no reply but he believed he could hear a faint rustling in the background. This continued for several seconds before there was a thump and what he thought was a muffled yell. More rustling and then a voice was heard.

"Hello!" Moriarty's voice jarringly echoed across the line, disturbingly cheery. "Sorry about that Sherlock. It seems you failed in training your pet adequately. He doesn't respond well to orders. In fact, he doesn't listen to them at all. And you know what you do with misbehaving pets."

There was an even louder thump this time, like someone was hitting a bag of potatoes, except that Sherlock now knew that wasn't the case at all.

A strangled cry was heard, making Sherlock instinctively flinch as if he was the one being hit. Sherlock stood there with the phone at his ear if paralyzed as the screaming got louder until Sherlock was clenching the phone in his hand so tight he was shaking. And suddenly, silence. Sherlock quickly whipped around to see what had happened to discover Mycroft sliding the phone in his pocket.

"You didn't need to hear that," Mycroft said apologetically.

He was torn. Hearing John in that much pain was something Sherlock never wanted to experience in his life. The knowledge that it was entirely his fault made the situation considerably worse. Moriarty was toying with him. Playing him like a puppeteer, knowingly causing this pain. And it was working. Oh, how it was working. Sherlock wanted more than anything to curl up, shut his eyes to the world and forget that any of this had ever happened. The pain he was feeling from hearing John was like actual physical pain, the worst pain he had felt in his life. Worse than breaking his leg at 16, getting into that auto accident at 17, or even the nightmare that was coming clean at 22.

However, like Mycroft said, he couldn't give up on John now, when John needed him the most. He really was the only one who could stop this and he wasn't going to let Moriarty's mind games throw him off the game again. Sherlock started, hand outstretched. "Wait! That picture."

Mycroft reluctantly gave back the phone, which Sherlock snatched out of his hand.

"Are you… okay?" Mycroft asked, his mouth downturned, seeming to doubt his reasoning behind even asking the question.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered as he shook his head, typing on the phone. "Aha! The picture. Let's see what little hint Moriarty left here."

He alternatively held the phone close and then far from his face, attempting to take in all the details present in the picture on the small screen.

"I have the CCTV for the surgery for all of today before John left," Mycroft added.

Sherlock lowered the phone. "And why didn't you inform of this before?"

"Excuse me? The yelling? Throwing half the flat around? You barely let me get a word in. And plus, it was just sent to my phone."

"Well, put it up on the computer. I'll do the same with this picture. It needs a bigger screen for me to examine it."

"Would you care sharing what the picture is of? Perhaps I can help."

"You? Help?" Sherlock snorted. He walked over to the computer, opening it and turning it on. He tossed it at Mycroft. "You can help by pulling up the surveillance footage for John's last patient."

Moriarty had originally hinted to check the surgery first. Sherlock knew that any leads in that area were his priority.

Once the computer was booted up and in front of Mycroft, there was about 1 minute before he handed it back to Sherlock. "Here. The footage of the front lobby of the surgery at 11:13. John's patient should be walking in around now."

At first there was nothing. Sherlock tapped the laptop impatiently. The lady at the front desk was filing her nails. A woman and her son walked out of the front doors. A doctor came in the door on the left with what must have been a patient's records, and handed it to the receptionist. Finally, a man walked through the front doors.

He was slender, unkempt, with dirty blonde hair, just as Sarah had described him. And Sherlock immediately recognized him. He leapt up, tossing the computer at Mycroft.

"It's him! Of course it's him! Oh that's clever. Is it clever? Ooooh, what's he up to here? Specifically pointing him out to me and everything." Sherlock spun around to face Mycroft. "Why would he go back?"

Mycroft just stared at Sherlock, bemused.

Sherlock started circling the room, thoughts flying across his mind. Things were finally coming together and he was beyond ecstatic.

Suddenly, he stopped. "Bring up the footage for when I was sitting outside at the restaurant," Sherlock ordered.

Mycroft pulled the laptop to a better position, and quickly found the requested time on the video stream.

After several moments of just an empty lobby on the computer screen, the left door slightly opened, and a man furtively walked out, leaving the surgery.

Snatching the computer from Mycroft, Sherlock hurriedly scrolled back in the time stream of the video until he found the point in which the man snuck in. Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. He was wearing a different coat then earlier in the day and a hat, but it was most assuredly the same man, and he was in the surgery for approximately 35 minutes according to the time stream of the video.

Tossing the computer to Mycroft again, Sherlock straightened up, adjusting his coat, his face determined. "Well, one thing is for sure. I need to go back to the surgery."

"Back? Would you care to tell me what's going on Sherlock?"

"The man who undoubtedly was working for Moriarty and kidnapped John earlier this morning, went back to the surgery when I was just outside the building."

Mycroft blinked. "And Moriarty pointed him out to you at the restaurant?"

"Yes, yes, Mycroft. Keep up." Sherlock grabbed John's phone out of his pocket again, pulling up the picture. But first, before we go back to the surgery, pull up this picture. I already sent it to you."

The picture was quickly brought up on the screen and the two men stared at it for several minutes.

The picture displayed a nearly empty room. The walls were a clean white, as if it had been freshly painted. The opposite side of the room was covered in thick sheets of cloth, possibly curtains. There was a small gap in the curtains, which piqued Sherlock's interest.

"Bring that section up closer," Sherlock demanded, pointing at it.

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's tone, but didn't say a word as he zoomed into the point Sherlock indicated.

"Now increase the resol—"

"I know, Sherlock. Obviously, no one can't tell anything by how blurry it is currently. Hold on."

The zoomed-in section was now infinitely clearer after Mycroft tinkered with the software for a couple of seconds.

The edges of the curtain now framed the edges of the picture, with the previously small gap now taking up the majority of the picture. There was mostly grey sky, but little else. The only other distinguishing feature was several thin lines running slightly diagonally across the picture in a pattern.

"But that looks like…" Sherlock frowned, squinting his eyes and brow furrowed in concentration.

"A bridge," Mycroft finished, also frowning. "But which one?"

"He would stick to London, as it is closest, and he couldn't have taken John far. So that definitely narrows it down to the bridges on the Thames. And these lines…" Sherlock traced his finger across a batch of lines that curved up and down. "…are clearly wires for a suspension bridge. There aren't many of those in London at all."

"The Chelsea Bridge," Mycroft offered.

"The Chelsea Bridge," Sherlock repeated, nodding his head.

"This room is high up in the air, so it's part of some large complex, most likely a hotel or housing building. I just need to match up the angles to determine the right room."

"You mean me," Mycroft interjected.

"What?"

"I will find the room," Mycroft said resolutely. "You said yourself, you need to go back to the surgery."

Sherlock hesitated. The mystery of the photo and what it could reveal was so inviting. John could be at that location. But he knew he wasn't seeing the whole picture. That man had to have gone back to the surgery for a reason, one that he needed to discover. It was his first priority and perhaps without it, he wouldn't find John in time.

"Fine, but you must send reports to me of everything that you observe. And could you print off a picture of that man from the second time he came into the surgery?"

Several minutes later, Sherlock was heading out the door, and hailing a taxi. They finally had a slight indication as to their next plan of action and it was invigorating. However, sitting in the taxi for the short ride to the surgery, thoughts of John's current predicament began to painfully crawl to the front of his mind.

Receiving this much more vivid picture of what John was going through was not facilitating Sherlock's concentration. He had known before that whatever Moriarty was doing to John would not be pleasurable, but the sounds of his screams that were still playing over and over in his head were not helping this already torturous mental image.

John probably wouldn't even want to begin and maintain a relationship with him if he survived this in one piece. He might even hate him. Sherlock fiddled with his hands as he considered the possibilities.

After all, this was all Sherlock's fault. If Sherlock hadn't allowed John to follow him around, if he hadn't allowed John to enter his life, John would never have encountered this level of danger. He had to imagine for John, getting shot at is one thing; getting tortured by an insane man whose purpose is to mentally debilitate your… colleague is another. Sherlock couldn't imagine anyone who would choose to remain attached to someone who had and would put them in that level and intensity of danger.

His relationship with John was doomed from the start and it was all because of his negligence. Well, his negligence and Moriarty's scheming. Sherlock should have seen how to prevent this from ever even happening. He could blame Mycroft all he wanted to make him feel better or to relieve some of the stress; however, all the fault was on him. John was just thoroughly entangled in the middle of this disaster.

Sherlock knew it was his responsibility to fix everything. So much was at stake; he had to prove himself for his sake, and John's. If something happened to him, he wasn't sure he'd ever forgive himself. He was going to destroy Moriarty for ever even touching John, for storming into his life like a hurricane bent on annihilating the first person that ever mattered to him.


End file.
